


Trapped

by fuzipenguin



Category: Transformers, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: Wheeljack is badly injured on the battlefield. As his physical body heals, his processor and spark suffers from the aftereffects of something else much more sinisterCommission fic.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inky_Squid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Squid/gifts).



You might have guessed that this fic is a dark one, judging by the tags. However, there are also details left out of the tags on purpose, to maintain flow to the story and impact the reader. Further details are at the end of the fic in case you do not want to read something potentially triggery. 

 

 

                Waking up hurt.

                Wheeljack was always grateful to be given another chance to open his optics and see the familiar ceiling of the MedBay, but couldn’t Ratchet have given him a _few_ more pain blockers?

                He rolled his head to the side, trying to determine if he was in the main area or one of the private rooms. Or at least he _tried_ to turn his head. He got about as far as an inch to the right before he stopped, clenching his optic shutters together as a sharp pain radiated down his back.

                Ow. Very ow. Definitely more drugs needed.

                Giving up on looking around for the time being, Wheeljack listened to his surroundings instead. He heard voices, but they were muffled. So either something had happened to his audials, or he had been placed in one of the recovery rooms. The latter was much more likely considering how he felt.

                Awesome. Ratchet was sure to have something to say if Wheeljack had ended up here instead of the main treatment room. But at least he wasn’t in the critical care ward. He had only ever woken up there once; those particular monitors had an urgent, high pitched squeal to them that he had never forgotten. In contrast, the machines around him now gave off quiet, almost comforting beeps.  

                Well, time to see what the damage was.

                Wheeljack opened his self-diagnostic program and perused the backlog for the past few days. And then for a few days earlier. And a few more before that.

                Wow. So apparently he’d been in stasis quite a while.

                What exactly had happened to him?

                He dipped into his memory bank, finding several corrupted files before a pristine one appeared. Oh, yes. The battle with the Decepticons in the Plains. The ride out there on Skyfire was clear as day, but things started going fuzzy as the frontliners charged the Decepticon soldiers. He wasn’t a frontline soldier, but for some reason, he hadn’t been far behind them. Why had he…?

                There must have been some sort of weapon. Megatron was prone to them after all. So there had to have been something that Wheeljack had needed to neutralize. Maybe a device had blown up in his face while he had been tinkering with it?

                That had to have been it. It was the only thing he could think of that would account for this much damage. The list of injuries was extensive, even for him: multiple spinal strut fractures, fuel pump leakage, coolant tank rupture, dozens of torn belts and cables, the shearing off his left arm at the shoulder, and… Wheeljack focused in on the last thing on the list.

                Spark alteration? What the heck was that?

                Just as he was about to delve deeper, he heard the sound of the door sliding open followed immediately by a familiar stomp of pedesteps.

                “Well, I see you’re up,” Ratchet commented as he paused to let the door shut behind him. “I was just starting to enjoy the peace and quiet.”

                “There is a distinct lack of ‘up’ right now,” Wheeljack replied. Damn. Was that really his voice? He sounded like he had been gargling with a rust cocktail.  

                “Good. Stay horizontal. You’ll be a lot less likely to get into trouble that way.”

                Ratchet walked up to the side of the berth, and Wheeljack was finally able to see his best friend’s expression.

                Well, frag. Ratchet looked exhausted. Judging by the list of injuries, there was a good chance Wheeljack had been a major contributor to that aura of weariness. And he had a sneaking suspicion that he had been a resident of the critical care ward at some point after all.

                “Did anyone die?” Wheeljack inquired softly, wishing he had the energy to reach for Ratchet’s hand. The medic’s optics had that pinched look about them that said Ratchet had been pushed to his limits and beyond.  

                “You. Twice,” Ratchet stated bluntly, crossing his arms over his windshield and glaring down at him. Well, at least he had enough spark left in him to give the evil optic. That was good at least.

                Wait…

                “I died? Twice?!” Wheeljack squeaked, once Ratchet’s words registered.

                Ratchet rolled his optics. “I’m sure by now you’ve looked at the damage. I think you topped Ironhide for number of injuries in one setting.”

                “Yeah, but… died?!” He almost didn’t believe it. But Ratchet would never lie about something like this.

                “Yes, Jack, died. As in your spark faded and all your internals quit working,” Ratchet snapped. “These things tend to happen when one of Megatron’s superweapons blows up with you at the epicenter!”

                “Oh, is that what happened? I can’t really remember too much,” Wheeljack admitted, although it was what he had suspected. “I’m sorry.”

                His optics were as earnest as he could make them as he gazed up into Ratchet’s weary face. As the years passed, it hit Ratchet harder every time he had one of his closest friends under his hands. Wheeljack was a frequent visitor to Medical, but he’d certainly never died before.

                “You damn well better be,” Ratchet muttered, ducking his head. “We couldn’t find you at first after the explosion. The blast wave carried you over a half mile away. You were… there was so many parts missing, Jackie… I could see your spark…”

                Ratchet’s voice hitched tellingly, and Wheeljack rushed to fill the sudden silence.

                “Hey, but I’m all right now. I’m here, I’m ok. I promise not to do something that stupid again, Ratchet. Promise.”

                And Wheeljack vowed it with every ounce of his being. He wouldn’t be the one that made Ratchet break.

                “Don’t make a promise like that,” Ratchet retorted, glaring down at him. “You do stupid stuff all the time.”

                Wheeljack chuckled weakly. “Yeah, I do. But not to that magnitude. Usually there’s a calculated risk involved. Did I even have time to assess Megatron’s doohickey?”

                Ratchet shrugged. “Not sure. I’m guessing not. Regardless, you’re stuck in here for another day or two. Nearly half your major components are new. Or refurbished, but still new to you,” he said, grimacing at little.

                None of the medics had ever enjoyed scavenging the battlefield for parts, but it was something they’d been reduced to doing during those last few centuries on Cybertron. On one hand, the battles on Earth caused only the rare death. Yet on the other, it made repairs difficult as the same parts got fixed over and over, instead of replaced completely. Wheeljack knew for a fact that Ironhide’s right shoulder joint had been repaired so many times it would stick unless greased twice daily. And Sideswipe didn’t walk with that inviting sway to his hips on purpose.

                Well, not entirely.

               “I’m perfectly happy to just lie here, like a good little lamb,” Wheeljack promised, grinning up at his best friend.

               Ratchet snorted, shaking his head in amusement. “For now. Give it about half an hour and you’re going to be begging me to come back and entertain you.”

               “Naw, I’ll just open up a line to Percy. He’s always ready for a good lecture about something or another.”

               “Try resting instead,” Ratchet instructed, poking Wheeljack’s shoulder. It was actually a gentle touch, yet it still sent a shockwave through Wheeljack’s haptic system. “Get some recharge. Your body’s going to be working overtime to finish repairs.”

               Wheeljack tried to nod in acquiescence and then froze at the dull wave of pain down his spinal strut. “Sure thing, Ratch. Sounds like a pretty good idea.”

               “I’m full of them. Anyway, I’m at the end of my shift, but ‘Aid will check up on you soon,” Ratchet informed him, starting to back away from the table.

               “Get some rest yourself,” Wheeljack rushed to say. “Don’t make me sic Hoist on you. Or Optimus. You know what that disappointed look does to ya.”

               “Don’t you dare!” Ratchet growled. “I was just waiting for you to wake up before heading out. No need to set the guard dogs on me.”

               It was debatable that Ratchet would actually leave MedBay, what with Wheeljack still recovering. But the medic would at least conk out on the cot in his office, which was better than nothing. Wheeljack’d still have a word with First Aid though, just to be on the safe side.

               “Get some sleep and I won’t,” Wheeljack retorted, listening to the door whoosh open.

               Ratchet was out of his sight now; Wheeljack wished he could twist his neck and look at him one last time. He and Ratchet had never needed physical closeness to maintain their friendship, but for some reason, Wheeljack didn’t want his best friend to go. Apparently dying made Wheeljack clingy.

               For a long moment, he listened to Ratchet’s quiet ventilations as he paused in the doorway. Maybe Ratchet was feeling clingy too.  

               “I’m here, Ratch. You’ve still got me,” Wheeljack murmured, knowing Ratchet would be able to hear.

               Ratchet made a wordless sound of acquiescence and then finally left, the door sliding shut behind him. Silence descended, broken up only by the monitoring equipment quietly working around him. The steady beeps and clicks were soothing in their own way, and after a few minutes of listening to them, his optics sleepily dimmed and offlined. One by one, his taxed systems slowed and went into standby, recharge just around the corner.

               He floated in that space between consciousness and sleep for an indeterminate period of time. Recharge was beckoning, but he wasn’t quite comfortable and he kept minutely shifting, trying to find a better position.  

               Eventually he found it, and he finally felt himself drifting off. It seemed like nothing could stop him from recharging. And that was when he felt someone lean over him.

               He hadn’t heard the door open nor pedesteps, but the presence of another mecha’s EM field was unmistakable. It buzzed and crackled against his own, not unlike Ratchet in a foul mood and Wheeljack was confused as to why the medic had returned.

               “Whatcha doin’, Ratch?” Wheeljack slurred, fighting to open his heavy optic shutters.

               Ratchet didn’t speak. Instead, hands ghosted over Wheeljack’s chest, petting lightly. A single finger traced along his main transformation seam, tickling the edges.

               Wheeljack frowned, unease prickling his lines. “Ratch?”

               The finger turned and pressed, a talon’s sharp edge wriggling between the two major armor plates. Wheeljack flinched, fingers twitching as his ventilations sped up. Why was… his spark had been injured, so it made sense that someone was checking it but why now? Why like this? This… this _hurt_.

               He grunted in pain as the finger shoved deep, hooking under the left chestplate. Wheeljack whimpered in sudden, abject fear as his armor was slowly but methodically peeled away from his frame.

               The owner of that finger couldn’t be Ratchet. The CMO could be rough and was fond of beating some sense into his more unruly patients, but he would never do something like this. None of the Ark’s medical staff would.

               “No… nooo…” Wheeljack whined when the armor plate finally gave. He shuddered as a cool breeze caressed his internals. A moment later, fingers crawled their way past his coolant tank, between support struts and cables to his spark housing. Sharp claw tips dug into the protective shield and Wheeljack cried out.

               “Stop it… stop!”

               Agony spread throughout Wheeljack’s body, his HUD helpfully telling him that his crystal casing was buckling under the outside pressure. His spark contracted in pain, and Wheeljack wailed in panic as his body ignored his commands to move. 

               “-ack! Wheeljack!”

               His entire body jolted, and his optic shutters finally popped open. At first he cringed away from the mech hovering over him, but his processor recognized the softly glowing visor and logged it as friendly. Wheeljack went limp in relief as he stared up into First Aid’s worried face.

               “I’m so sorry, Wheeljack. But you didn’t seem to be able to hear me,” First Aid said softly, fingers lightly tracing Wheeljack’s cheek. “I think you were stuck in a very bad memory purge.”

               “A…a p-purge?” Wheeljack stammered, the side of his face stinging. First Aid had slapped him, he suddenly realized. The other mech’s field was tinged in guilty remorse, but Wheeljack couldn’t fault the medic. Wheeljack’s spark still felt like it was going to collapse in on itself from lingering terror. Better to be awake than to continue to be trapped in a nightmare.

               “You sustained a great many injuries,” First Aid continued. “It’s normal for your processor to start to analyze things once out of stasis.”

               Wheeljack nodded numbly. Apparently the damage caused to his spark was bad enough that at the time, he had thought someone was reaching into his chest to yank his core out.

               Spark alteration, indeed.

               “The damn thing needs to move past it already,” Wheeljack said shakily, his spark still hammering. He almost whimpered at the loss of touch when First Aid drew back, his hands slipping away from Wheeljack’s frame in order to bring a portable scanner to bear. First Aid passed it over him in a wide sweep although Wheeljack didn’t know why he bothered. He was hooked up to nearly every machine in the MedBay. Maybe he just wanted to confirm Wheeljack’s racing sparkbeat.

               “It will,” First Aid said, flicking the scanner off. His visor flashed in a reassuring pulse. “You did die twice after all. It’s natural to have some aftereffects.”

               “Yeah. Remind me not to do that again,” Wheeljack muttered, finally starting to relax. Ratchet’s misery was more than enough incentive to be careful in the future. His own body chastising him wasn’t really necessary.

               “I’m sure Ratchet managed that just fine,” First Aid replied tartly, echoing Wheeljack’s thoughts. “You scared him, Wheeljack. Badly.”

               “I know. Trust me, I know.” Wheeljack averted his gaze in shame. “He getting some sleep?”

               “He’s sprawled out all over his cot,” First Aid said, his tone turning humorous. “He should be out for a while; I might have laced his energon with a light sedative.”

               Wheeljack grinned. He and the other members of the medical team occasionally conspired to force Ratchet to rest when he was overworking himself. “That’s my boy. All right, git on out of here; I’m sure ya have more important things to do than console a guy having nightmares.”

               “Stress will slow the healing process,” First Aid replied. “I’m not so busy that I can’t stay and keep you company.”

               Wheeljack was sorely tempted to take the medic up on his offer. But he was better now, he really was. Or at least he told himself so.

               “Thanks, but I’m ok. Although I bet I’d sleep better if my pain blockers were a little stronger,” Wheeljack commented with a suggestive waggle of his orbital ridges.

                First Aid paused as he accessed Wheeljack’s medical record and then slowly nodded. “I can do that. Can’t get comfortable?”

                “Not really,” Wheeljack replied. First Aid stood up and walked around to one of the monitors out of Wheeljack’s sight. Almost immediately, he felt a wash of cool sensation throughout his body and his cables relaxed out of their tight clench. “Oh. Oh, mech, that’s the stuff. Thanks, ‘Aid.”

                “You’re welcome, Wheeljack. Get some rest.”

                Processor pleasantly spinning from the heavier drugs, Wheeljack knew it wouldn’t be problem.

\--

                And it wasn’t. Wheeljack slept like a sparkling. But that was the last time he recharged peacefully.

                The next time Wheeljack woke, his systems had nearly fully integrated with the new(er) parts so Ratchet discharged him from the Bay. He was supposed to be off duty, but that didn’t stop Wheeljack from immediately heading to his lab to check up on some projects he had been working on before his accident.

                Everything was as he had left it, if not a little bit cleaner. Wheeljack suspected Perceptor had been by to ensure Wheeljack hadn’t been working on anything time sensitive. And every time Perceptor came into Wheeljack’s lab, he always straightened.

                Wheeljack puttered around a bit, purposely moving some of his boxes and equipment back to their haphazard storage state. It didn’t long for him to tire however, so he trudged back to his quarters with ever slowing steps. Once inside his room, he immediately crawled on top of his berth and sprawled there face down. It took less than a minute for his systems to tip over into recharge, a sure sign that his body was still healing.

                Roughly twenty minutes later, he flailed himself awake with a panicked shout. He fell to the floor, jarring his still sensitive hip and back. The pain barely registered in his half-aware state. All he could think about was the need to hide from groping hands, so he instinctively stuffed himself into the small space under the bed.

                It took him several minutes to fully wake up. Even when it became evident that he was alone, it was nearly an hour before he could convince himself to emerge from under the recharge slab. He ended up perched on the edge, shivering, and protectively shielding his chest with a hand.

                “You nearly had your spark blown out of your chassis, Jackie,” he said aloud, trying to sound confident. “Of course things are gonna be weird.”

                He thought his voice sounded a bit more desperate than confident, but he had always been good about keeping things positive. This would get better; it would just take a little time.

\--

                 Time made things worse.

                 He tried recharging another four more nights before coming to the realization that he wasn’t going to just get over this. Not when his purges were steadily becoming more specific. There was always pain, but now there was a voice that went along with the fingers and EM field. It was heavily muffled, but it had a cadence and accent that was vaguely familiar.

                 In addition, Wheeljack was starting to… _feel_ things. He was in the lab the first time it happened. One minute he was soldering a motherboard and the next, he was flinging the soldering iron across the room, nearly overcome with rage. Later that day, he felt a deep satisfaction that had absolutely nothing to do with the cup of medicinal energon Ratchet still had him on.

                 These emotions were not his, yet he was still feeling them. The only way that could happen was through a spark bond.

                 Wheeljack nearly purged his tanks the first time his ever helpful processor came up with that thought. He hadn’t been in any romantic relationship prior to his injury. Which meant that a bond had to have been forced on him, likely when he had been lying broken and helpless on the battlefield.

                 Now the pain and fear surrounding the memory purges made sense.

                 But who? Who would force a spark bond on someone else? It was more likely one of the Decepticons, but what if it had been an Autobot? Wheeljack liked to think that none of his comrades would ever even consider such an invasive thing, but they had been stuck on this planet for a while now. Cut off from home, trapped in a never-ending war… That could be enough to drive a mech ‘round the bend and make them do things they normally wouldn’t.

                 Wheeljack spent nearly a day debating whether or not to tell someone. His instinct was to go to Ratchet, but a spark bond couldn’t be seen or touched. When he got up enough courage to face the mirror and open his chest, all he saw was a happily spinning ball of energy inside its housing. The crystal showed evidence of recent injury but so did the majority of his chassis. His spark itself looked normal.

                 So all he had were foreign feelings and memory purges. Definitely not enough for Prowl to investigate further, especially since the medical team had chalked the original nightmares up to his grievous injuries. And besides, what if it _was_ an Autobot?

                 What if it was someone who had admired Wheeljack but didn’t know how to say anything? What if it was someone who just needed psychological help? Could Wheeljack, in good conscience, have that mecha punished for being out of their processor?

                 And if it was a Decepticon, well… it wasn’t as if the bond was forcing Wheeljack to do something he didn’t want to. The bond was too new and fragile for that; he was still very much himself. Tired and scared, but otherwise still himself.

                 He could manage this. It was the only thing he could do.

\--

                 “Wheeljack, do you have…?”

                 Perceptor’s voice trailed off as Wheeljack shot up out of his seat, Prowl’s damaged acid rifle clutched to his chest. It was currently useless for anything other than a club, but startled as he was, it had been instinct to grab the weapon for protection. He didn’t have much else. The rocket mounting on his shoulder was still awaiting replacement, but since he was still on light duty, it wasn’t a priority for Ratchet.

                 “Wheeljack…” Perceptor said slowly, lowering his data pad and looking at Wheeljack in concern. “Are you all right? You look… peaked.”

                 It was just Perceptor. Good ole Percy. A mech Wheeljack had worked with a million times over. Yet Wheeljack couldn’t help but wonder… was _he_ the one? Did _he_ feel an intimate tie to Wheeljack? Was it _his_ quiet laughter that Wheeljack had felt in his spark last night?

                 His logical processor informed him it was unlikely. Perceptor hadn’t been on the battlefield that day, so he wouldn’t have had the opportunity. And Percy in a rage? He didn’t think he had ever seen the other scientist more than lightly irritated.

                 Wheeljack marginally relaxed. He lowered the rifle back to the countertop and sheepishly rubbed the back of his head.

                 “Yeah, Perce, I’m ok. You just surprised me is all.”

                 Perceptor tilted his head to the side, considering him. “You have been working too hard,” he stated. “I never see you anywhere but the lab. Your endeavors are important, but not if they cause you harm in their creation.”

                 “Pft,” Wheeljack replied, waving a nonchalant hand through the air. He sat back down on his stool and looked up at Perceptor with earnest optics. “You got your own endeavors to keep ya busy. We just keep missing each other outside the science wing. Trust me, I get out and about.”

                 Mostly to his quarters where he tossed and turned on his berth before falling into a restless sleep that lasted mere minutes before the purges started. But Perceptor didn’t need to be bothered with that.

                 “Are you recharging all right?” Perceptor persisted, taking several steps forward. Wheeljack’s plating crawled under the other mech’s gaze, and he fought the urge to pick up Prowl’s rifle again.

                 Wheeljack shrugged. “Not as well as I used to. Still getting nightmares every now and then.”

                 Perceptor’s expression softened. “Perhaps Ratchet could be persuaded to give you a sedative? It’s important to get enough rest; you are still healing, after all.”

                 Wheeljack had tried sedatives. Just once. And after, he had vowed to never do so again. Sedatives forced his body into recharge, preventing himself from waking until the drug left his system. Which meant he had relived that horrible bonding again and again until the sedative had finally wore off.

                 “Yeah, not a bad idea,” Wheeljack said, trying to keep his voice light. “But you came for something other than suggestions on how to sleep. Whatcha need, Percy?”

                  Perceptor blinked at him in surprise and then down at his datapad. His face lit up and he began speaking animatedly about his current project.

                  That was good. Distractions were good. With work in front of him, he almost felt normal again.

\--

                  Wheelack finally gave up on recharging after several weeks of nightmares. Instead, he napped every few days, short dozes which usually only ever lasted ten to fifteen minutes. About then, his sparkrate would start to climb and a subroutine he had created and installed would force him up out of sleep before the purges got too bad.

                  The naps left him feeling fuzzy and out of sorts, but stims helped clear his head when he needed to work in the lab. He tried to use them as sparingly as possible, because mecha could get addicted to them. But he needed to focus, especially while he was working with explosives or corrosives. He couldn’t afford to get hurt. He didn’t want to be the cause of that worried, exhausted expression on Ratchet’s face ever again.

                  So Wheeljack managed. He did his best to ignore the ghost emotions in his spark, rested as much as he could, and soldiered on. His closest friends looked at him sometimes in concern, but he had gotten good at lying convincingly. Besides, things were heating up with the Decepticons and no one really had the time to dig into why Wheeljack always looked so tired.

                  Maybe things would pass. Maybe things would get better. Maybe one day Wheeljack could finally recharge without feeling like he was being stared at.

                  Or maybe not. Maybe he’d finally go as insane as all his critics in the engineering circles had always claimed he was.

\--

                  It was almost a relief when the blaster shots tore through him. Four months of exhaustion and stress had whittled him down to a shell of his former self. Death would be a blessing. And it wasn’t as if he would be alone. He had finally turned off the feed registering the dead after learning about the shuttle that Megatron had attacked.   

                  Wheeljack shuddered as a soft wave of lassitude washed over him, and he crumpled to his side. He managed to roll over, staring up at the blue sky. Only a few feet away from him, he heard Cliffjumper’s body whine and gurgle and finally go silent. It seemed like a quick death, which was all anyone could hope for anymore.

                  He wondered if Ratchet’s death had been quick. By all that was holy, he prayed that it was. It felt like Wheeljack’s would be soon approaching, judging by the pool of fluids he felt spreading out from under his back. It wouldn’t be long now before he reunited with Ratchet in the Well. Where they both could finally rest.

                  He couldn’t keep his optics open any longer. Wasn’t much to look at anyway. As they dimmed and blinked off, Wheeljack focused his attention inwards, to his spark. He had done his best to always shrink away from the bond, so it had remained thin without any further spark merges to cement it. But now he dove into it and as his consciousness slipped away, he viciously yanked on the other end.

                  If he was dying, then he was going to do his best to take his sparkmate along with him.

\--

                _Brawl! What in the Pit is taking so long?!_ Onslaught demanded. His voice echoed oddly inside Brawl’s head, and he shook it twice to try and rid himself of the ringing.

                A scuff of pedesteps made him look up to see Vortex standing over him.

                Wait. Over him? Why was Brawl kneeling on the ground?

                Vortex’s head tilted to the side as he considered Brawl. His gaze dropped, and Brawl looked down to see himself clutching the middle of his chest.

                “I hurt,” Brawl announced, apropos of nothing. His fingers spasmed against his plating, curls of paint falling away from the points of his claws. “But I’m not hit. Am I?”

                “Not anywhere that can be seen,” Vortex replied, rubbing the heel of his palm across his own chest. “I wondered what that was. It was probably your little pet; I bet he died.”

                Brawl reeled back in shock. Wheeljack? Wheeljack had died?!

                “Come on. It’s not like _you’re_ gonna die,” Vortex said, reaching down and tugging on Brawl’s arm. “Our gestalt bond will keep you from following him. But I bet you’re gonna have a pit of a sparkache for the next few days.”

                He sounded almost gleeful, and Brawl shook off his teammate’s hand, standing on his own. Vortex nodded dismissively and propelled himself back into the air. Now that the mystery of Brawl’s behavior had been solved, Vortex was no longer interested.

                None of them would care, Brawl knew. None of them had understood why Brawl had bonded with Wheeljack. They had treated Brawl’s decision to do so with scorn or anger, and none of them had agreed with Brawl’s admiration for the engineer.

                It was more than just regard and respect. There was a kinship there, a love of explosions and good humor. If the war hadn’t happened, Brawl suspected the two of them would have found one another and instantly hit it off. There would have been laughter and shared fuel, sizzling hot interface sessions, and a shotgun bonding.

                But instead, the war broke out, and he and Wheeljack had ended up on opposite sides of it. And Brawl had been reduced to bonding Wheeljack while he was unconscious. There had never been the opportunity to truly explore their link or each other.

                And now they never would.

                Brawl hung his head, pressing his fingers even harder against his chestplate as the ache spread throughout his entire frame.  

                “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in despair. “I’m so sorry, Wheeljack.”

 

~ End

**Author's Note:**

> ** Brawl finds and takes advantage of Wheeljack's injuries by raping his spark and forcing a bond with the engineer. Wheeljack doesn't really remember what happened to him, and the information comes to him through his nightmares. He suffers symptoms of PTSD and hopelessness, feeling unable to tell anyone. He gradually deteriorates until the events of the Transformers Movie (canon-consistent for character death)


End file.
